


Twenty-Seven Days

by berlynn_wohl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bathtubs, Humor, Kink Meme, Masturbation, Pre-Slash, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-01
Updated: 2011-08-01
Packaged: 2017-10-26 09:36:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Mother of Jesus, why are we having this conversation."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twenty-Seven Days

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Twenty-Seven Days /27天](https://archiveofourown.org/works/506209) by [Miss_Octopus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Octopus/pseuds/Miss_Octopus)



A/N: This story is a  [ fill for a prompt ](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/9100.html?thread=41757836#t41757836) on the kinkmeme. Anon asked for Sherlock walking in on John having a wank, and being intrigued by it.

 

 

Through the wall, Sherlock heard the water come on. It was not the more familiar sound of the shower spray, but the hollow thundering of the bathtub tap being run.

As the tub filled, John popped round the door and said, “Sorry, do you need the toilet before I get in the bath?”

“I'm fine, thanks.” Sherlock peered through his microscope at the slide. “But would you make me a coffee before you get in?”

John said “Nope,” and went back into the bathroom.

All the years he'd been a soldier, John never had a proper bath; it had always been showers. But these days, baths were a welcome ritual, especially after a case, but also sometimes during, if he could manage one. When Sherlock was running him all over town, day after day, it was so nice to have a good soak to ease his muscles. He wasn't a young man anymore.

He got the water as hot as he could stand it, and lowered himself into the tub. Every few minutes, he would pull the stopper, then add more scalding water, to keep it nice and hot. For a long while, he soaked, his eyes closed, a folded towel cushioning his head against the rim of the tub. The only sound was the occasional drop escaping from the tap and plopping into the water below. Sherlock was being so lovely and quiet in the other room. 

After almost nodding off, John sat up so he could give himself a bit of a scrub, soaping up and rinsing his face, the back of his neck, his armpits. Then, without shame or hesitation, he lathered his cock under the water, and started playing with himself in earnest, giving himself nice slow, hard pulls. Mmm, yes, it had been a while. His muscles weren't the only thing that could use some easing.

He drew his knees up and reached down with his other hand to fondle his balls, massage them against the root of his cock. They were firm, and felt full. He was a doctor; he knew perfectly well how the body worked, and that ejaculate was not gradually stored in greater and greater quantities in the testicles. He knew that if he didn't have an orgasm, the seminal fluid stored in him would just be reabsorbed back into his body. But he couldn't help feeling like his balls were taut and full, slightly distended, just about ready to burst with come. He tugged at his cock, wanting to empty himself, relieve his aching balls. Ooh, and when he came, he could watch himself ejaculate under the water; that was always interesting to see.

Without any preamble of footsteps or a knock, Sherlock swung the door wide and strode right in. “John, I have to ask you something--”

“Sherlock, what the hell?!” Dropping his cock, John instinctively scrambled up and back, lifting himself out of the tub. An instant later, he realised that would only serve to expose himself more. He plunged back down in the water, looking for something to cover up with. But what, a flannel? Ridiculous. Finally, he just curled up, pressing his flagging erection between his thighs and his belly.

It was not apparent whether Sherlock had seen what John had been doing. He continued, “It will just take a moment--”

“I locked the door!” 

“Oh, that lock doesn't actually work, didn't you know? I disabled it long ago.”

“What for?”

“What if someone climbed in the window and attacked one of us in the bath? No one would be able to get in to save us.”

“That is...actually sound reasoning, when you consider our lifestyle. I'll give you that one. But that is no reason to come barging in any time you please!”

Sherlock now looked at John quite intently. Not at John's face, but at some indeterminate part of his body that was submerged. “How often do you do that?” he asked.

John looked down at himself. “What, bathe?”

“Masturbate.”

“What do you want to know for?”

Sherlock said nothing, but continued to stare.

“I don't know. Four or five times a week?”

“And how long does it take you?”

“Look, is this because I wouldn't make you that coffee?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“...You're not leaving until I answer, are you?”

“Likely not.”

John sighed. “Ten minutes, I reckon. I can do it in less if I'm in a hurry.”

Sherlock's eyes flicked away for a moment. “Incredible.”

“Look, I don't know what _you_ get up to, but ten minutes is in no way incredible.”

“That's just it. I don't.”

“Don't what?”

“Masturbate. I haven't since I was seventeen.”

“Mother of Jesus, why are we having this conversation.”

Sherlock sat on the lowered lid of the toilet. John wondered when he'd considered himself invited in all of a sudden. “Before that,” Sherlock said, “I did it constantly, which I understand is how most teenage boys operate. But I was out of control. Everything was chaos. Couldn't control my brain or my body in those days. Never slept, never got anything accomplished. By the time I was seventeen, I knew I had to do something, gain some semblance of discipline, or I would go mad, one way or another. So I just...stopped. When I got an erection, I just willed it away, and eventually they bothered me less and less. I hardly get them at all, anymore. So what you were doing made me wonder: in eighteen years of not masturbating, how much time have I saved? How much time have I been able to devote to my studies and my work because I wasn't frittering it away pleasuring myself? So let's say my habits would be similar to yours. An average of eighteen times a month, that’s two hundred and sixteen times a year. Alotting ten minutes for each session would mean spending thirty-six hours every year at it. Times eighteen years, that's six hundred and forty-eight hours, or exactly twenty-seven days.” He paused, and looked amused. “Imagine that: me wanking for twenty seven whole days!”

“I am, as a matter of fact, at this moment, imagining that, thank you, now can you _sod off_ , please.”

“Let's see, you're forty, so do you consider it worth it that you've devoted thirty-three days of your adulthood to masturbation?”

“ _Sod. Off_.”

Sherlock looked disappointed. Not so much like John had hurt his feelings; more like he was baffled that John didn't find the conversation as interesting as he did. Slowly, he stood up and skulked out of the room. 

John called after him, “Wait a minute. When you first came in you said there was something you had to ask me.”

“Oh, yes.” Sherlock bounded back in and stood in front of the tub, looking right down on John. “Were you planning on eating that piece of fried cod in the refrigerator?”

John blinked. “I was, but I suppose if you-- _that's_ what you interrupted me for?”

“That was it, though I'm glad I did. I've learned so much this evening that I didn't expect to. Thank you, John, for the cod, and for the, er...” 

Sherlock waved a hand in the general direction of the tub, and departed again, leaving the door wide open.


End file.
